Work Text:
Template's favourite thing to watch Ink do was paint.
In awed silence, he would sit and watch as Ink sat at the canvas, the complicated triangular structure that held it up. A small mug of paint thinner - Ink had told him that - and a proper wooden pallet, one edge curved like a mouth, small hole for the eye, like a smiling face turned to the side. It rested so securely in Ink's palm or on his knee that Template almost felt jealous of it. It taunted him for its lack of feeling toward anything, its lack of aversion to prolonged touch.
Sometimes, Template arranged the small, glossy tubes of oil paint while Ink worked, once Ink gave his permission. Rainbow order. Template murmured names of colours reverently under his breath - vermilion, gold ochre, lemon, viridian. Ink never seemed to mind the way Template's voice pitched high to low, the way it stuttered some words to a halt and sped up others frantically.
But then, of course, the actual painting: those lovely, smooth strokes across the canvas with each movement in Ink's wrist. Darks first, blending into lighter colours, the curve of a tree or a fruit or an eye. Everything deliberate and unhurried, and Ink so immersed that after an hour he would rub his neck and wince slightly, having stayed in the same position for so long. Though Ink didn't often finish paintings, Template felt a sense of pride if he did happen to see the finished product in Ink's room later, as though they had collaborated.
It was always so much nicer than Pale's messy, crude scrawlings across walls and buildings, so much more careful. Template had never liked Pale's scratchy vandalism, and seeing Ink paint Template was reassured he was right in this belief.
They didn't talk much while Ink did this. So, when Ink's casual "Hey, Temp?" registered, Template didn't acknowledge it with more than an 'mm', expecting to be asked to get more water or to be told Ink had to leave soon. (Truth be told, Template was guilty of changing the subject when Ink brought up the topic of having something else to do. It ached, knowing their time together was limited, and Template didn't see the harm in buying a few more precious minutes together before Ink rose with a yelp, fumbling for his brush. He was just so forgetful, Template reasoned, he might not have remembered anyways.)
"I don't really want to paint anymore." Ink said, stretching arms making a square shape above his skull, fingers interlinked. Template blinked, a little disappointed.
"Alright." Template said, and waited for the inevitable 'I have to fight/save/protect this universe, it is my job' spiel that always stung Template's soul the same way. He shifted on the bed, in order to assume the polite position of someone who was preparing to leave, even if he planned on stalling for a while.
Ink smiled. "I wanna dance. We should dance."
Template stared. Ink giggled, and swung around in his chair, removing himself from the pretzel-twisting of limbs he'd somehow relaxed into and propping his chin on the backrest. In one eye was a little heart (naples yellow) and in the other was a question mark (burnt sienna).
"We can do it in the main room. You don't need to touch me that much, promise!"
"I-I don't-" Template blinked to squeeze static out of his eyes. "I don't know how, I-I've never danced with anyone before."
"I'll teach you. C'mooon, newbug. It'll be fun." Ink goaded, waggling paintstained fingers at him. Template hated that nickname, a reminder of both his relative newness to the Multiverse and, inescapably, his glitches. But the fact that he'd even bothered to think of one made Template smile each time.
"Don't you have something to do?" Template squeaked, trying to lean to the side to peer at Ink's scarf. Ink moved at the same time as him, neatly obscuring Template's view and holding his gaze.
"I'm sure it can wait."
"Ink." Template pleaded.
"Don't 'Ink' me!" Ink stood up, undoing the green straps of his overalls, which had been serving as an apron up until that point. "Dance is the hidden language of the soul. Even if, uh, you don't have one." Ink pointed to himself, slightly self-deprecating, before beaming. "It's good for you regardless, I think."
Template followed Ink reluctantly out of the room, running one finger underneath the bands securing his gloves. Template had watched other Incodes dance, sure, but he'd never expected to be told to do it himself. Pale danced sometimes, if it could even be called that, a wild, uncontrolled movement of all his limbs as much as he could, like dislocating something was a promise rather than a threat.
The house they were in wasn't Ink's actual house (Ink called it a 'hidey-hole' and Template begged him to change it to something cooler sounding). It held the same, dreamlike quality as Ink's Doodlesphere. If Template looked out of the windows, all he could see was blue sky and wobbling clouds, and then later a soot-black night sky, small celestial bodies drifting impossibly close to the building. Sometimes Template heard a knock on the door, or a snatch of conversation would startle him, but Ink dismissed these noises as placeholders not taken out of the script.
The 'main room' actually had very little in it, apart from a few stray things left by Ink: an empty glass vial, a crate, fruit from a still life that had never oxidised in the unreality of this universe. The room was spacious enough that this sparsity was noticeable. It had large windows offering views of mist which simply clipped out when it encountered the house. The wholesome green-and-browns of Ink's outfit were pleasing under any natural light; he looked like a forest sprite or dryad. Template imagined lichen and moss springing up after every step.
Ink sighed, looking about forlornly. "We need music. I'll be back."
Before Template could protest this - Ink easily forgot what he was supposed to be doing when he left to run errands, and Template had spent hours waiting for him before giving up - Ink had slipped into a black puddle on the floor. Template sighed, reaching behind him to run his fingers across the ridged surface of Penny's nib.
"Do you think he'll come back, Penny?" Template asked aloud. He felt a warm pulse beneath his palm as her light flashed, which Template took as a yes. He tried very hard to have the same sort of connection with her as Ink seemed to have with his brush. Sometimes Template thought about both of their oversized weapons leant against each other, off to the side somewhere, while their newly unencumbered bodies embraced in turn. The cool colour of Template's flush was a contrast to how warm it felt on his face.
Surprisingly enough, it wasn't very long until Ink returned. A portal opened horizontally, and Template jumped up from where he'd been sitting. Ink gave him a slightly breathless grin before hauling in a large red jukebox from seemingly nowhere, flicking the portal shut behind him.
"How… how did-?"
"Grillby's." Ink replied, beaming. He took his yellow vial from his bandolier. "I robbed a Grillby's."
When Ink did things like this, it was somewhat confusing to Template: from a moral standpoint, taking things from universes with no payment and no intention of returning them surely fell a little further than the 'grey' category. Seeing the look on his face, Ink's grin lessened slightly.
"Don't be boring, newbug."
"I'm not!" Template protested, bristling slightly. In an attempt to prove how fun he was, he walked over to inspect the jukebox, running his fingers over the ridges on its side. A large fluorescent light shone onto long glass-covered lines of names Template didn't recognise, and he frowned. Little white buttons lined the front of the jukebox on levers, with tiny, faded numbers. The whole thing was visibly tarnished, the 'To Select' instructions scratched out and peeling with age.
"Let's hope it still works." Ink hummed, and slotted his brush out of the straps on his back, dropping it with a thud. Template followed suit, and nudged Penny unsubtly towards Ink's Broomie when Ink wasn't looking.
Ink leant over the jukebox with a concentrated frown on his face, flicking one button down, then another. All of a sudden, it began to whir, one of the discs below the dial spinning, and a shiny black record lowered onto it, held in place by a trio of red spikes. Template jolted at the sudden blurt of a trumpet, followed by short stretches of rhythm guitar, and Ink's eyes swirled into stars.
"Oh my god, I wasn't actually expecting that to work." Ink pushed a hand to his forehead, laughing. "It sounds really good, as well!"
Ink turned to Template, the same way Template would expect a cat to turn to a mouse who had previously thought it was managing to escape. Slow, sloe-eyed blinking, the cat in love with the things beneath its paws.
"Can I take your hands?" Ink asked, eyes gleaming. Template nodded. Hands were the safest; his protective layers muffled the touch just enough to trick himself into thinking it wasn't happening. Ink's slender phalanges pressed into his palms, white squares of static fizzing over them, and Template cleared his throat. Behind them, the jukebox warbled out lyrics:
Every time you kiss me, I'm still not certain that you love me
Every time you hold me, I'm still not certain that you care
Though you keep on saying you really, really, really love me
Do you say the same words to someone else when I'm not there?
Template flushed, though Ink paid the words no mind. He began to sway, gently, and frowned when Template stood foolishly.
Ink huffed, stopping. "Look, I'll show you."
It was hard to focus when Ink moved a little closer to him, but Template nodded obediently, awkwardly removing his hand from Ink's to push his glasses further up his nose. Ink lifted one arm, so they held hands at an angle, and then placed his hand so, so lightly on Template's shoulder. Template instantly realised he was willing to tolerate the pain of a thousand crashes for this.
"Put your hand on my back." Ink said. Template did.
Ink looked up at him, beaming, and Template felt himself smile in return; the kind of wide smile he usually tried to hide from Ink, edged with panic from the contact. He could feel the faint ridges of Ink's spine.
"This is, um, really close!" Template said.
"Yep. Now move your feet." Ink's bare toes nudged his trainers, and Template was startled into a veering stumble to the left. "Whoa! Okay, now think, less spooked horse, more like… you're really chill and having a good time moving, okay?"
"Really chill." Template repeated, with a hysterical tinge. "So chill."
"Fake it 'til you make it." Ink replied solemnly.
They moved. Template realised, belatedly, that he was somehow much, much worse at this than he'd initially thought. His fear of not stepping on Ink's toes made him rigid, and his fear of appearing foolish limited his movements. However, Ink just laughed, and bit by bit he began to take over, guiding Template around the room, neatly avoiding the few obstacles.
"See!" Ink said triumphantly. "You're getting it!"
"I'm getting it!" Template squeaked, still too jittery with nerves to sound normal. His face felt like a lamp left on for too long.
Darling, if you love me
I beg you wait a little longer
Wait until I drive all
These foolish fears out of my mind
Why can't our romance just
Keep on growing stronger
Maybe I'm suspicious
'Cause true love is so hard to find
Ink lifted his arm to spin under it, laughing; his scarf and trousers flicking with the movement.
"Okay, now you go!" Ink said, slightly breathlessly.
"You mean- um-"
"Twirl! Do a twirl!" Ink lifted one of his own arms; their previous positions and height difference made the twirling a little awkward, but Template felt himself blush with pleasure when Ink cheered after his slightly stilted attempt. The song began to fade out, and Ink hastily assumed their previous position again, before attempting to manoeuvre himself into a dip without Template's conscious input.
Ink's leg straightened, almost touching Template's; their faces were now inches apart, Template's hand somehow supporting Ink's weight. The record clicked off on the jukebox but Ink made no move to fix it, his eyes searching Template's face for something. Ink's face was slightly flushed, and Template could see a spatter of tiny dots, as though a colourful blood vessel had broken open. Template held his breath, and kept very, very still as Ink lifted his hand.
…Ink's thumb traced over the edge of one of his glasses. "These are filthy," Ink said, in an awed whisper, "I don't know how you see out of them!"
Template deflated. He gave Ink his best, practiced winning smile, despite how he was trembling. "I don't have lots of time to clean them, you know, there's this guy who's always keeping me busy with watching him paint, and dancing…"
Ink rolled his eyes. "You wish, hero." The word echoed in Template's skull, causing a huge, insensate grin to spread across it: hero, hero, hero. Ink laughed, extracting himself from Template's hands so easily Template kept holding empty air for a moment.
"It's like saying 'treat' in front of a dog." Ink mused, examining him closely. Template didn't quite know how to respond, laughing and rubbing the back of his neck. Their close contact had left a raw feeling like hives on his bones.
"Don't worry," Ink said, "I definitely won't exploit your obvious Pavlovian response."
"You're free to, um, exploit it all you want." Template replied, maybe too eagerly. "Anytime!"
Ink kept smiling, the same catlike smile as when they'd begun to dance. "I'll keep that in mind."
Template glanced at their respective weapons, which had rolled together now, pressed side-to-side snugly. He decided to take it as an omen.